 | CHAPTER II. Logan |  |
2. CHAPTER II.
Reader! hast thou ever, in thine own chamber, while
meditating on some beloved one, thought to thyself, and
held thy breath as the thought arose in thy heart, how
thou wouldst feel, should that beloved one, casting off all
that shackled her to the vain customs of the world, holding
a sublime confidence in thee, hallowed and protected
by the shedding halo of her own purity, appear before
thee, beside thy very couch! Hast thou never, woman?
hast thou never?—Speak to me, there are no listeners
present—has it not been thy wish, at midnight, in thy
Did not your very blood and pulse ring an alarum.
And thou, dearest! hast thou never heard a still small
voice near thy pillow; or some faint, delicate echo, like
the note of a well remembered song;—hast thou not been
at thy window too, love, at midnight, under a concave of
deep, deep blue, and heard, in the very air, near thee, a
kind and peculiar footfall; and started, with thy head
beating hurriedly, as it passed thine ear, like the familiar
step of him, thy most beloved:—hast thou not listened,
and trembled, more than half asleep, to catch another,
another, and another naked footstep upon the floor of thy
chamber, struggling all the while to allay the riotous
intoxication of thy thought! Thou hast. I know thou
hast. It is in thine eye at this very moment. The leaves
tremble in thy hand. Thy voice falters in reading. Thy
breath is hurried. No mortal man—nay, not even a woman
hath yet lived and loved, but hath felt all this—heard
all this in some sweet revery; no man that hath not
heard such gentle notes, and welcomed them; clasped
some soft hand, that melted in his, and held on, and
blessed it, and kissed it, trembling all over, lest, after all,
it should be a delusion! and shutting out, with a delicate
and almost painful perseverance, all that could dispel it!
O! how often have I dreamt, in my youth, and felt, in the
innocent persuasion of my heart, that, at last, I held the
dear hand in mine, and felt the thrilling movement of her
fingers—or the smooth, passing touch, of the gentlest and
purest lips, long, long after we had parted forever.
Judge ye of Harold then. Night after night had his
heart gone back to the Indian girl, as to lay some sacrifice
upon the altar of its idolatry; and night after night
had trembled in its allegiance, and visited the earlier and
wilder, and prohibited scenery of its haunts—where, let
no one tell. They that have loved can tell; for they
know, however they may disguise it, that love is like all
other passions—it is various, and of every degree, like
friendship. People talk as if a true heart can love only
one; nonsense!—You may as well say that a true heart
can only have one friend—one object of enmity, one ambition.
True, there will be one, more loved, more hated,
one love, and one only. When you can show me a man
or woman who has had but one friend, and one only,
through a long life of vicissitude and affliction, having
no friendship for any other human being, then will I
show you one of these idolatrous lovers, whose inveterate
obstinacy is so much the theme of the sentimental—and
not till then. Reader! art thou indignant? Did thy heart
never tremble? Lo! I have thee!—Alternately thou hast
played falsely, while reading this tale! Alternately thy
heart hath beaten for Loena and Elvira, Elvira and Loena.
Hath it not. Confess it, and I will forgive thee. The
book is written only to convince the pure in heart that
he is not a heretick in love, who has loved more than one
—even at the same time! But I hardly hope to succeed
—The world are so obstinate.
Yea—women!—ye who believe in the canons and creed
of this deity—ye who are of the orthodox, believe me.
You may break in upon the dwelling place of the god—
this one love—dislodge him, scatter his shrines and
jewelry—rend his hangings—quench his arrows—and
banish his priesthood—and ere you have turned your
back upon the ruin, you will hear the flutter of their wings
upon their return, and you will be dazzled and blinded
by the re-assembling dust that passes before you, at their
command, to take the form of some other and more permanently
sceptred divinity.
Yea! disguise it as you will, such is love. The vacant
heart is always hunting after a tenant. The censer, once
kindled, it will not suffer to be extinguished, in its bridal
chamber. The odour, and live coals once thrown upon
the altar, must be there forever. It is tender, doubly
tender after its bereavement. Let two be torn apart, two
that have grown together; and you will find that neither
will heal, neither stop its bleeding, till its lacerated surface,
and ruptured vessels have found some other companionship,
than the emollient or balsam. When its
young fibres are bruised, and broken, and torn and trampled
on, if there be any life left, they become inconceivably
more sensitive, and while they shrink from the ungentle,
they cling with the tenderest pertinacity, like searching
like themselves.
Such is love, and Harold found it so—in the fierce
and dreadful aspirations of his spirit, the very indefiniteness
of whose movements partook of the sublimity, which
characterized it, in the wilderness and the storm. It was
a spirit born and bred in the hurricane. A spectre would
often pass before him, as he sat in the haunted chambers
of memory,—her garments flying in the wind—mournful
and incessant musick following her tread, like an echo;
and he would recognize the deportment and countenance
of dominion and love—passionate love—of her who first
broke his heart, as with a sceptre of iron.
In one of these lifted meditations had he been, when
he awoke and found her, yea her of his heart, leaning
over him;—her, the wronged and abused creature of his
affections. No wonder that his brain rang—no wonder
that his heart leaped. Her presence was the fresh cold
water, scooped up for the dying man, and held to his
cracked lips, by the dear hand of his beloved, who, to
his dim eyes, was at that moment afar off, weeping and
watching for his return.
He awoke again—and found her sitting by his side,
with her quiet hand upon his forehead. Harold shut his
eyes—for he had not the heart to look her in the face—
the rifled and abandoned lady—the creature of such
pale and majestick tenderness.—Why had she never
cursed him, O why? why no reproaches, no denunciations,
no threats? O no—they were unworthy of her.
He drew her hand to his lips—still without daring to
lift his eyes,—just put them to it, and articulated “God
bless thee—O no—I cannot look upon thee,—thou most
injured woman—(her tears fell upon his cheek)—“Elvira!—lady—I
dare not speak to thee yet—thou canst
not forgive me.”—The last words were scarcely intelligible.
She bowed her face upon his forehead. Their
lips met—thrilled—“my God! my God!” he cried, and
leaped upright in his bed.
“Harold, dear Harold—what ails thee?—what art
thou staring at—speak to me, dear.”
His lips moved.—“I cannot—cannot—O!—leave
me Loena—leave me, or she will destroy thee.”
“She!”
“Poor, dear Loena. Didst thou not see her? O, she
was very pale.—She has been sadly dealt with—hush
hush—one moment. She will not be seen by thee—hush
—I will tell thee all when she is gone.”
He inclined his head as if listening, and Elvira's
haughty forehead trembled for a moment in the pale lamp
light—and she drew her veil over her face with an agitated
hand—a face, still beautiful and meek, beyond expression,
but pallid as the young lily that floats upon the blue
pond, gleaming in shadow and ripple.
Harold put out his hands, tenderly, as if to smooth the
parted locks of some sick girl—“Loena, dear,”—said he,
tenderly, “she loves thee—I am sure she does. She
will not harm thee—love—only do not weep.—Ha!—
she is gone—gone!—that flash:—oh it scorches! it
scorches!—”
He turned and took Elvira's hand, and fixed his keen
dark eyes upon hers, while his lashes glistened with the
deep emotion of his heart. He was himself again. And
all the great resolution of his nature rose, like a giant,
at his command. He reverentially bowed his head upon
the hand that he held, as upon the hallowed relicks of
some earlier religion, in which he had been born, and
with which, all that was innocent and tender was associated,
in his recollections—until they were scorched and
shrivelled, and polluted, in flame and blood, by the
spoilers—and then, would have relinquished them forever.
But no!—no!
The lady understood his emotion, and his purpose.
“The governour,” said she, distinctly, looking him full
in the face,—Harold shuddered, and he leaned toward
her with a look so intense, that it showed all at once, all
that he felt, or hoped, or feared—“is dead.”
Harold dropped his head upon his bosom, with a wild,
inarticulate laugh. His whole face brightened and darkened
successively, three or four times, before he could
speak. It was now deathly—as his heart smote him
for the sinfulness of his thought—“O can it be!—have
man,” said he. It was now glowing crimson, as he looked
up, and reflected the eloquent blush of her countenance.
A silent pressure, faint and trembling, re-assured him.
“Harold,” whispered a voice, more indulgent than his
own heart, to his own frailties, “thou didst rejoice for a
moment—not, I believe, for the death of thy benefactor,
but, because, by his death, thou hadst ceased to sin in
thy love.”
Harold blushed. It was too true. “But when, I pray
thee, lady, when did this happen? nay, there are ten thousand
questions, but I have not time to begin. When thou
wast away, there were a hundred things that I longed
to ask thee about. But I forget them all now. My heart
reels with the multitude of thoughts that beset me. It
is full, even to bursting, and—Father of mercies!”—The
red pain shot over his forehead, and his eyes rolled again,
very wildly for a moment, as he endeavoured, with the
expression of detected guilt, to interpose his own form
between Elvira, and something that he appeared to see:—
but her pale hand allayed the one, by a single touch, and
the soft breathing of affection soon subdued the other.
The countenance of Elvira was troubled. “Who was
this Loena—this poor, dear Loena;” she was on the point
of asking a dozen times, but her pride withheld her.
“But still—how in the name of heaven,” said Harold,
thoughtfully, “How came we here? Where are we? Is
this accident? Nay—I cannot smile—but thou mayest.
I love to see thee smile. But why have I not seen thee
before.—All this time—O, lady!—was this kind? How
many hours, days, weeks of innocent and respectful communion
have we,—forgive me, lady—have we lost.”
The lady looked anxiously upon him, as if doubtful
whether she heard him aright.
Harold reddened. He lifted his eyes to hers beseechingly—he
laid his hand upon hers—a strong hand, but
the softest in the world.—Who could resist him? “It is
really wonderful,” he continued, after a short, but expressive
silence, “wonderful indeed, that I should never
have gone in pursuit of thee, after that night, nay—nay
am indeed.—Why didst thou not speak to me?”
“When? where?” said she, in agitated voice.
“That evening when I met thee, just after we left
Quebec.”
“Harold!—recollect thyself, dear. I was never at
Quebec.”
“What!” cried Harold, “not near me, all the night
long—did I not touch, by accident, the hem of thy garment,
and did not my heart feel sanctified from that moment—as
if it had been bathed, baptized all over, in some
etherial essence, warm and penetrating?—And then—
what madness, that I should not have known the cause
of these symptoms—and followed, and plucked thee
forth, from the whole body of the passengers, and wept
with thee, and been with thee, from that hour to this. O,
how happily might have been spent so many dreary,
endless hours!”
“Harold, I should say that thou wast dreaming, did not
thine eyes assure me that thou art awake. Thy countenance
and tone convince me that there is some foundation
for this. But believe me,—and go to sleep, for indeed,
dear, thou needest it.”
“We shall meet hereafter, only by accident. We have
met here already, by the purest accident. Nay more, for
thou art young, and it were pity that thou shouldst
much mistake me—thou wouldst never have seen me,
even after I knew thee to be here, in the same vessel
with me—separated I find, by only a thin partition—”
“By heaven!” cried Harold,—“it was thy voice then,
that I have so often heard, whispering my name. Ah!—
yes—blush—I could look at thee forever, when thou art
in confusion.—I have supposed it fancy—and yet, it
thrilled me, when I was awake—I have heard it then.”
“I saw thee, some time since, no matter where:—
from that time I kept myself industriously concealed—
a circumstance that I cannot (her eyelids dropped—and
her eyes filled—and her lip trembled) cannot speak of
now, betrayed thee. Another accident made me betray
myself. Nay—nay—I command thee,” she continued,
more. I have much to tell thee.”
“I cannot yet.—When did he die?”
“The governour?”
“Yes.”
“Nearly a year since.”
“And how came this meeting? whence art thou?”
“I had departed for England in a ship of war. It was
my only chance for the season. It was the largest, and
therefore the safest ship on the station. Being so, the
captain was ordered to cruize awhile, along the West
Indies. We had sent in a number of small vessels, and
this ship which we fought the other day, is the second
vessel of war that we have captured.”
“After the battle, I saw thee—” her voice faultered in
the first words.
“After the battle?—go on,”—said Harold, eagerly.
“I inquired about thee. None knew who, or what,
or whence you were. A fellow prisoner of yours told
me, at last, that you came on board at Quebec, under the
especial countenance of the governour. Is it true?”
“Yes—I am now going to Europe, under his direction.”
“To Europe!—what part?”
“To France. Such was my intention. Now I must
go to England first.” The lady grew thoughtful—so did
Harold. There was a dead silence of some minutes—
some thought, which neither dared to utter.—
Harold's eyes suddenly flashed fire.—Lady! Elvira!
—Was it “after the battle?”
She arose, and attempted to pass out.
“No, no, by heaven!—thou shalt not leave me!—my
brain is all on fire with the thought—whirling, whirling.
Lady, speak to me—tell me—O tell me! was it not thy
hand that plucked me out of the slippery shrouds?—was
it not?—didst thou not, thou most exalted woman, didst
thou not plunge into the thick of battle.—Gracious God!
Elvira—(he gasped for breath,) quick, quick—art thou
the mother of that child?”
Her tears gushed out, and she laid her face upon his
shoulder. He was overcome—he wept with her. Their
whispered, “my heart knew it was thy child—how it
doated on him!—Thank God! thank God! that I saved
its life—the life of thy child—the babe of Elvira!”
“Harold—dear Harold—” murmured Elvira, hiding
her face in his bosom—“Leopold is thy child!”
“Merciful heaven—what!—what!—O, Elvira—do
not drive me mad. Speak to me again!—my child! mine!
—Some devil is besetting me. Where art thou love?
Something just whispered me—that—hush! hush—no,
no, I cannot tell it. Thou wouldst die in my arms—and
yet—” he raised his face drowned in tears, and crimsoned
with shame, and joy, and contrition; and endeavoured,
but in vain, to get a glimpse of hers,—but no—
her long hair, and her hands covered it—and it was buried
in his bosom.
“Speak to me again, love,—tell me, whisper it—art
thou indeed the mother of my child?” She pressed his
hand in silence; “Leopold thy child—Leopold my
child!—Harold the father of thy child! O—I am delirious
with a guilty, and unnatural transport. Where is
he—where is he!—I must, I will see him, before I sleep.”
Elvira remonstrated, but in vain. The child, who since
Harold's last illness, had been kept away, was soon produced
by his mother.
“O my pa! my pa!” cried the little fellow again, in
the same voice as when Harold first saw him. Harold's
heart danced in his bosom, and Elvira's eyes sparkled
through her tears.
“O Leopold!—my child! my child!”—said Harold,
clasping his hands. “Our Father! I do thank thee. Now,
I could die contented.”
It was high time to separate. And when they next
met, Harold learnt many interesting particulars of the
past. A shattered ivory tablet, she said, had been found
in the woods, its leaves glued together with blood—it
came to the hands of a little, old, active man, with very
bright eyes, half Indian, who passed for a prophet with
the Indians, and was much respected among the whites;
he severed the leaves, and found that Logan was of an
ancient family in England, and related, by blood, to the
affair a secret, pursuing and watching Harold, until the
governour was on his death bed, when he revealed it to
Elvira, with many mysterious allusions to her calamity.
She was compelled to defend herself. She did so, before
her dying husband. He acknowledged that he had
wronged her—deceived her in marrying her; that, under
an apparent disinterestedness, he had profited by her
childish admiration of his valour, and her ardent gratitude,
to prevent all reconciliation between her and the
lord of her heart; for all which, he besought her forgiveness
with a contrite and broken spirit.
This was too much. She fell upon her knees, and
avowed to her husband that the little boy whom he was
then straining to his heart, was not his—but Harold's!
The governour started as if a viper had suddenly uncoiled
about his heart, and shot him through and through!
He raised the child with a tremendous malediction, as
if to dash out its brains, when the mother shrieked, caught
it away, and told the story as it was.
Such is the majesty of truth!—He grew calm. He
forgave her—nay, he believed her, wept with her, and
adopted the child, with his last breath, as his own—acknowledged
it, and left it the bulk of his property. He died—
and the last words that he uttered were, “I did wrong
to marry her—she was too ambitious—too young—too
beautiful.—And I—too—too old,—farewell love.”
The day following, Harold arose early, and, for the
first time, opened a pacquet of baggage, which had been
sent on board by De Vaudreuil. He was not a little
pleased—it is in vain to deny it—with the contents.
There were several superb military dresses—a magnificent
watch—a commission, open, with all the appendant
seals, appointing him a colonel, and praying the recognition
of royalty thereto. Many letters, directed to persons
of rank—in Paris—and letters of credit, which
Harold knew not the use of, until long afterward.
He equipped himself, in a splendid dress of green and
gold, with black facings, and was coxcomb enough to walk
about, and get up and sit down, a number of times, with
some emphasis, before he was entirely composed. He
it. Indeed there is no fact of more common experience
than this—that a better dress makes a man of
more consequence, not only in the eyes of others, but
of himself—when among strangers.
Throw the greatest and wisest man upon the world, in
a garb, meaner than he is accustomed to—let him have
a long beard, and soiled linen, and he will be a little man
directly. He will lose his aspect of authority, and tread
and speak doubtfully. Every body is prepared to browbeat
him, or pass him by with contempt; and what is
more, he looks for it, and expects it. Hence it is a part
of the religion, and politicks of a Frenchman to have
one dress, as good as he can possibly afford. The greatest
are restrained and humbled, by appearing worse than
they are. Fill the pockets of any man—wash his face—
and dress him up, and you give him clean and new ideas.
His countenance, and tone, change upon the spot. His
very loll is graceful, or imposing; and he feels that it is
so. He does better, and what he does, is better received.
Therefore, reader, I should say to thee, and I would
have thee remember it, let thy colour be what it may,
that it is better to be a fool and a knave, and appear
graceful and gentlemanly, than to be the wisest and best
man, and appear dirty and lubberly—among strangers
I mean. And why?—because you pass before a multitude,
with whose first glance, you are judged forever.
They never see you again. Few—very few can, or will
take the trouble, to penetrate what is repulsive or discouraging;
and few, therefore, can ever know the real
worth of a man, while his apparent worth is always obtruding
itself upon their senses.
Harold was intoxicated for a few moments—a few moments;
but, after a while, his self-complacency began to
abate. His eye fell upon a suit of citizen's dress—and
then upon a fashionable frock. He was bewildered. In
the mere listlessness of the moment, he was about trying
on another suit, when he observed some linen curiously
wrought below. This led to a further examination; and
such was the sensibility of his nature, such his gratitude
for all this kind-hearted attention, that he pressed article
first rummaging a new baby house.
He plucked out his watch.—He stamped with vexation!
“Five o'clock only!—and they would not breakfast
for three whole hours.” It was too much for mortal
patience. He sat down, and twirled his thumbs, and
twisted and fidgetted about—put his hands upon his
watch chain—and then forbore to pull it out, a little while
longer, with a determination that, he flattered himself,
partook of the sublime. “Thank heaven,” said he, at
last, “one hour at least has passed, since I looked at
it.”—He took it out again. It was only ten minutes
later. The hands appeared motionless—he feared that it
had stopped—he listened—but even that consolation was
denied him. He had half a mind to undress, and go to
bed again.—
“Oh, my dear boy!”—O, I am glad to see thee!”—
he said, as Leopold, newly washed and brightened,
jumped into his arms,—and clambered up in his lap, delighted,
beyond expression, at the beautiful buttons, and
splendid trimmings of Harold's dress. He kissed Harold,
again and again, pinched his cheeks, played with
his hair, jumped down, and ran about capering and
clapping his hands like a mad creature, shouting—“O,
my pa! my pa!”—
Harold's brown complexion and deeply coloured lips
and cheeks—his flashing eyes—all grew deeper and
brighter at the sound. Leopold pointed out a hat with
plumes.—Harold put it on, and was struck with his own
martial appearance, as reflected in the mirrour. It was
of a singular fashion, and its fur trimming made it resemble
the warriour turban that he had once worn in
battle. His bold front had never endured a hat. Leopold
was half frantick with delight, nor could he be appeased
until he had helped his “pa” buckle a cimitar upon
his thigh: an unfortunate affair for poor Harold, as it led
an officer, who happened to pass the door, as he walked
to and fro on duty, to look in, and then go to the captain
and detail the mysterious transformation that he had
seen. The captain sent his compliments, and desired to
see the officer, for so he appeared, by his quality and
“Sir,” said the messenger,” descending and touching
his hat, “the commander's compliments, and expects
you upon the quarter deck.”
Harold could not help blushing, but he repelled the
insolent look of the intruder, with a glance of such imperial
steadiness and fire, that the man shut his eyes as if
the hot lightning had fallen, melted, upon his balls. A
quick feeling of native pride and indignation succeeded
in Harold's heart; and, in the twinkling of an eye, he
was equipped:—At the electrifying effect of anger, all
the thousand petty and provoking awkwardnesses of
a new dress were forgotten. He forgot his trepidation—
forgot Leopold—himself, and even Elvira, and was already
on deck, before he thought of preparing himself
for the interview. And lucky indeed for him was it,
that he was unprepared. Preparation would have ruined
him. He was like some speakers, who are only eloquent
and natural, when they have no time to be unnatural.
Like them he could forget, at the sound of a single word,
as it tingled in his ear, all his timidity, and all his embarrassment.
Before he knew how he had got there,—Harold stood,
face to face, with the present commander, even in the
plenitude of his authority, uncovered and undisturbed,
with the tread of a soldier, and the look of a young
champion, about to enter the tilting ground, against whomsoever
it should please heaven.
A general murmur of surprise and encouragement
welcomed him. There was, moreover, an involuntary
movement of all, that bespoke respect.
“Sir,” said the new made captain, turning toward
him with his arms folded, as he strode fore and aft the
deck, in a tone of good natured, honest, blunt arrogance—his
little, gold laced hat, perched awry upon his
round, fat, red face,—his hair standing out from under it,
in all directions, and stiff with what looked like tar, at
least,—his long white waistcoat, with enormous flaps,
smutted and greased, and falling away from the buttons,
and his shirt sticking out between that and the waistband
sixty or seventy years of age, at his elbow—“Sir—you
are an officer I take it.”
“No, sir.”
“No, sir—damme, what d'ye mean by that? Two
epaulets, and no officer!—a cheese toaster half as long
as our main mast, and no officer!”—
“What regiment, sir—Come, come—His majesty has
no reason to be ashamed of you. What regiment?”
“Sir—I do not know,” said Harold sternly. “I have
answered your question once!”
“Where is your commission, sir?”
“On the table below, in my state room.”
A servant was despatched.—“Damn this lingo,” said
the captain, holding it up sideways between his thumb
and finger,—“I am no scholar—this here Latin stuff
never suited me.—Your diplomas, and epitaphs, and
things, why arn't they in English? Are they not to be
read? Symmons, send the chaplain here.”
The chaplain came, and assured his commander that
it was not Latin—“treason perhaps, for he could not
expound it.”
Harold now recollected his danger. He was a British
subject—holding a commission from the French, in time
of war!—
“Sir,” said the commander, “you appear to be a gentleman,
sir. You are a brave fellow, that I'll swear to.
You have done your duty against his majesty's enemies.
There is your commission. I don't ask you what it is.
But, if there be any thing under the hatches—why—
take my advice, and keep it there. Sir, I remember that
I once carried, for charity, a whole cargo of miserable,
dirty devils, with their heads all bound up, over to the
land of the monsieurs. But they changed wonderfully
when we touched the port. They were all marquisses,
and generals, and the devil knows what all—and I was
finely choused. Sir, the whole hospital—the lame, and
the blind, and the halt, were knighted on the spot. It
appeared that I had brought home a whole cargo of their
ancient nobility. This made me suspect you. You will
pardon me—for I shall now order a search among all
of nobility—damn it!—why, may be, that's one!—
Harold laughed outright, at the sudden change of tone
and look which accompanied this remark, but he assured
the honest sailor that he had nothing to fear; he was no
nobleman.
Harold returned to his cabin and attempted to repack
his clothes, but while thus engaged, a paper that was
sewed within the folds of a handkerchief, rustled in his
hand. Could he be deceived! His eyes glanced at it—
his hands shook—and he felt a sickness at the heart. He
opened it. His feeling, his truth were not extinct—he
fell upon his knees on the spot. The paper dropped from
his hand—it was blank, save one scrawl in the middle.
It was blistered all over, as with rain drops—were they
tears? The letters of his name were traced hazardously,
and without any knowledge of their import, one would
have thought. But he knew better—her hand had traced
them! her eyes had wept over them! and—what was
that!—something fell from the inner fold. It was a lock
of hair!—her hair. “O, bless thee! bless thee for it!”
cried the agitated boy.
He sat down and mused, and pressed his temples.
“What,” said he, aloud—“of what am I made? Have
I no heart?—none!—Where is my fidelity? no heart, no
feeling, no sense of the desolation that besets her!—She
scorned to complain—she never reproached me—and
yet, she wept over me,—and her own undisciplined fingers
have scrawled the characters of my name, while her
heart was breaking. Where is my resolution? I have
been very weak, wicked. I have taught her to conceal the
most innocent working of her own pure heart. Ha!—
mother!—is it thy breath that I feel upon my forehead—
stirring my hair.—Loena, is it thine, dear? Mother!
Loena—weep for me. I am very miserable. Ye have
seen me weep—no, not thou, my mother, but she has.
And when, when was it?—not at the stake, not in the
mortal agony. No!—Had my heartstrings been snapped
asunder in the vehement gaspings of my heart—had I
been torn, limb from limb, ligament from ligament, and
burnt to ashes, would I have shed a single tear?—No!—
Indeed, I know not; and yet there is a melancholy pleasure
in it—something so sweet and delicious, so soothing,
and so dear to the bruised and weltering heart.
Even now I could lie down, and weep myself to death.—
Love!—Shall I, can I be faithful to thee,—to thee,
whose only beauty, as thou hast told me often, is thy sincerity,
whose only dower is thy valorous devotion?
That dear confiding girl! O, who knows of what she is
capable! She told me—and proved it, by irresistible
evidence, that she loved me. And yet, mayhap, she has
cast me off for ever. Could she have loved me? Yea—
she did. I know she did—beyond all things in heaven
and earth. And yet—she has torn herself asunder from
me—untangled—unknotted—and rent away every fibre
and nerve that was intertwined, or interwoven, with any
of mine.—If it be—she is an heroick creature!”
Harold's cheek reddened. Loena had threatened him.
A threat! from her too, a being in his power!—almost
living and breathing upon his will. He started upon his
feet; and paced the apartment, with a troubled eye, a
few times. He became composed. He returned. He
sat down. He dwelt upon her love, her loveliness, the
apparent meekness, yet fiery intrepidity of her character;
her gentle and sweet admonition; the wonderful self
command that she had sometimes shown—her power
over herself—he dwelt upon all this, until he grew proud
of her, unspeakably proud of her. “Could she leave
me?” he asked himself, again and again; “could she?”
Harold doubted her power, and was half inclined to
try her, as no woman was ever yet tried, feeling, while
his own character evolved, like tapestry, in the light and
wind of a storm, full of magnificence, beauty and terrour,
that he never could marry one who was not capable of
undergoing a fiery ordeal—treading, literally, with naked
feet, over heated plough-shares—yea more, of tearing
herself loose from every human being—every living
thing—in earth and heaven—except her Maker, if that
were the penalty of abandoning a loved one, who had
acted unworthily.
He thought of her last words. They rang in his ear.
His heart listened, and echoed them. They dwelt upon
like a death bell sounding in a sepulchre,—for a subterranean
funeral. A tear dropped upon his hand. He started—
he had not the strength, no, nor the heart, to wipe it
away. There was no aching of his vitals, no scorching of
his eye-balls now; and yet, he wept. The tears did not
rush like blood to his eyes, as if his heart had burst with
the effort—no! that time had passed; but they gathered
slowly, and fell, drop by drop, with a mournful pleasure—a
sweet melancholy sensation, such as the heart
might be supposed to feel, if it were naked, and the
moisture of twilight fell upon it—starshine, air, and dew.
Harold was subdued—utterly subdued; to be so loved,
so treasured, so tenderly and so loftily by one, to
whom he had been playing falsely.—He clasped his
hands, and bowed his head upon them; and felt, for a
moment, as if his heart were bounding against the heart
of his own dear, dear Loena.
The hair was turned about his fingers. The touch recalled
him. So jetty and smooth!—Loena had ever been
remarkable for the wavy luxuriance of her tresses, and
their glittering shadowy beauty; they were Indian only
in their shining blackness: not in their rich and glistening
undulations—and this! then, was the loveliest of them
all! He uncoiled it, drew it through his hand, smoothed
it,—and his fingers thrilled to the bone. He remembered
it—that very lock, he was sure, had once parted upon
her forehead; for he once, as they sat together, of a
moonshiny night, by a blue fountain that sparkled over
its pebbly barrier, and oozed through the abundant moss,
like a perspiration of quicksilver; a feathery and whimsical
grouping of light trees playing with the air of heaven,
just over their heads, and the dim mountains towering
between them and a sky of surpassing brilliancy
and distance—once! on such a night, in such a scene,
he had pressed her forehead with his lips, and smoothed
her beautiful hair, as it waved, and rose and fell, very
slightly, in the fresh air, like satin, rumpled in the wind
and dew, and shining in the starlight. Yea!—it was
the very lock—that which he had caressed so often and
so tenderly.
An approaching step alarmed him—with the trepidation
of guilt, he attempted eagerly to conceal the hair; but
it was impossible; it was so entangled with all his fingers:
at last he succeeded, and advanced, glittering in
his uniform, and blushing to the eyes, with the hair waving
in his hand.
It was Elvira. Her eye glanced, like lightning, from
one to the other, changing its expression as rapidly, and
finally resting on the hair. She compressed her beautiful
lip, and a transient shoot of crimson passed over her forehead.
Harold attributed her confusion to his imposing appearance!
a flutter of gratified vanity was the consequence,
and he took her hand, so graciously. She raised
her blue eyes to his—he dropped her hand, and stood
trembling before her. His dress was no longer becoming.
He was sorrowful. In his warlike Indian garb, so
picturesque, so martial, he had no rival—it seemed made
for him—designed for him—and his carriage, head, and
look, seemed made for that!—and then, how he strode in
it! Now—he would be compared with others, to whom
the strange habiliments that he now wore, were familiar.
How would he stand the comparison? Hitherto his dress
had been a standing explanation, and history of his character.
It was strikingly free and spirited, and accorded
admirably, with his swarthy complexion, and eye of unearthly
brightness, as if it were the foil, and setting, of
some dark jewelry.
And she—why stood she thus?—her queenly aspect
overmastering all the woman for awhile: her innate disdain
of all puerility, and all the paltry devices of a coxcomb,
overtopping for a moment, all her delight and tenderness.
Harold awoke. He would have given his right hand,
that he had never seen the detested baubles that encumbered
him. In his vexation, and disappointment, he
could have taken the watch from his pocket, and dashed
it upon the floor—and trampled on it—and ground it to
dust—as he observed the slight motion of her upper lip,
while her eye glanced, scornfully and deliberately, over
the chain.
There she stood!—and never was the unruffled grandeur
agitated embarrassment of man. Harold determined to
be at ease—made many desperate efforts, but all were
ineffectual. He feared to move, lest she might think it a
trick for display. And he dared not be still, lest she
might imagine that he could not move. Did she enjoy
his embarrassment? Indeed it were hard to tell; her,
emotions were strangely contradictory.
He was certainly, even in this uniform, what the ladies
would have called an “elegant fellow,” but he was not
what she had loved; the wild Indian boy—or rather, the
Indian prince, whose fierce eye, and untractable spirit,
first awakened the lioness in her heart. He stood now
before her, not in the solitude—the awful solitude of the
wilderness, wrapped in fur, his half naked limbs, full of
expression and character, all his sinews quivering with
the excess of his natural electricity—and no matter in
what other character he might appear, it seemed to her
that he was no longer Harold.
Elvira addressed a few common-place observations to
him—in a remarkably lady-like, courteous, and unconstrained
style—(for which, by the way, Harold never
forgave her!) and then turned, in her stateliest manner,
and departed—without one expostulating gesture or
look, from the proud Indian.
She was gone, gone! and he gradually sunk upon his
seat, stupified and humbled to the earth. “Can it be?”
said he—“this woman, this queenly one, can it be that I
have strained her to my bosom convulsively—Can she be
the creature whose warm cheek—and trembling lips—
and scalding tears, I have heretofore felt upon my own
cheeks, for whole minutes—in one embrace! Merciful
heaven! can it be!—But stay—were it not worth while
to avenge myself?—Dear, dear Loena—thy simple and
affectionate heart would never have supported thee to
this. Thou shalt regain thy ascendency.—”
A whole day passed—wearily indeed—but it passed;
and the night came. Harold, troubled and tossed about
for weeks and weeks as he thought, now half determined
to arise and write to her,—and now half resolved to buckle
on the sternest of his mental panoply—and forget
her—and scorn her. But no!—that was not for him to
midnight, and scrawled a letter to her—
“Lady!—
“Forgive me! That I have sinned, I am sure, and yet
I know not how. I cannot sleep. The paper is blistered
with my tears. There was that in the rebuke, with which
I was left, dearest of women, which I cannot, cannot
drive from my recollection. What means it? Are we
to meet no more?—no more, as we have met? Lady, forgive
me. I am distracted. Let me see you once more—
but once—for one single moment, and then, if we must
part for ever and ever—I will obey.”
The moment that there was sufficient light to see his
way, Harold was upon deck, habited as of old, feeling a
new manhood in his frame, a higher and more pervading
sense of his own dignity than ever. Little Leopold came
whooping and hallooing to him. How lucky! Harold
gave him the note,—and then recalled it. It would excite
remark, and, with all his habitual indiscretion, there was
that innate and delicate sense of propriety, which is always
the attendant on pure affection, to restrain him, at
such seasons.
He thought of a book which he had. He put the note
in that, and sent Leopold with the book to his mother.
No answer came. The day passed away; and they were
near land. But the shouting of the crew, and the tumultuous
gratitude of the passengers, as the bluish cliffs of
Albion appeared like a waving and broken cloud, upon
the centre horizon, were of no interest to him.
His pride was wounded. But perhaps, perhaps the note
was lost; perhaps too—his heart leaped at the thought,
and he gasped for breath—perhaps, she was ill.—He shuddered.
Leopold had said that his mother would not kiss
him, when he left her. Her frail and exquisitely delicate
constitution had, at last, yielded to her watchfulness and
anxiety over him. And how had he requited her? He
could have lain down and wept like a child, at the thought.
He determined to know the truth.—She was sick, sick
at heart. He learnt this, and was willing to forget all, even
his pride, in the overflowing of his tenderness—and love—
yes love! Was it treason? No matter—treason or not,
he had said it now, and he cared not, though it were
again.
“What is my fault? O, tell me. What a day have
I passed!—a day of sorrow and humiliation, such as I
could never have believed that I was capable of supporting.
Lady!—I do not deserve it. What have I
done? O, tell me in mercy. I am prepared for the
worst; for any thing, rather than this terrifick uncertainty.
At least, send me back the book,—it is now my
only relick of thee.”
The book was returned. Upon a blank leaf was
scrawled, with a pencil, in a trembling hand, “You
have deceived me. You deceive yourself. You love
another. I would have you wholly mine—no rival—
none! Never, never would I share a divided heart. I
have resources. There is a career open to me,—that,
and the devotion of the few who love me—will support
me. I have had my dreams—but they are past. Farewell!—farewell!—heaven
bless you.”
Harold wept; and who would not weep? She was
sick—sick unto death; and why? O, full well did he
know it—sick, sick at the heart? He read the letter
over and over again, a hundred times. Every syllable
burnt itself into his heart. His memory was on fire.
Forgetful of all, of his beloved, yea even of Loena, her
who he had loved so truly, he replied.—
“Almighty God! Lady—can it be possible! This
then is the cause of your illness. Lady, hear me. I cannot
lose you now. I cannot. Hear me, I conjure thee.
`Deceive thee!'—no!—No, I never have deceived thee,
I never can. `Loved another.' Yes it is true. I have
loved another. But how?—not as I love now. She was
artless, young, and inexperienced, with many high, and
many noble qualities, but—she was not Elvira. Let me
see you. I must see you. I cannot, will not survive a
separation.”
Elvira was asleep, when the note was brought. She
awoke—read it—and they met; were reconciled, and
happy. Alas! for Loena.
They arrived. Harold and Elvira stood together, side
by side, before she stepped into a magnificent carriage
that awaited her,—about to part for ever. Their hearts
had been fearfully disturbed of late,—and now they were
was too thrillingly sensible of his changes—accustomed
always to kindness, and courtesy, the slightest intermission
of either was death to her.
Harold was anxious, yet afraid to touch her hand.
With much effort, however, he at last stammered out an
offer to escort her to her dwelling. The offer was affectionately
accepted. They rode side by side in silence.
Harold was in a new world—he had been compelled, for
his own convenience, after all, to adopt the uniform of a
French officer, and he was not yet at home in it.
The carriage stopped at a magnificent mansion. They
were alone in it. Their eyes met. They embraced. It
was the last time. She leant her head upon his shoulder,
and wept.
Harold took her hand. It was motionless and cold.
He pressed it. It made no acknowledgment, showed no
sensibility. “Elvira,” said he, as she alighted, “I cannot
part so.” She recovered, smiled through her tears,
threw aside her veil for one moment, and murmured,
“God for ever bless you! Harold—dear Harold.”
“And thee! and thee, love,” was his answer, “for
ever and ever!”
| CHAPTER II. Logan | |